People often ask when I started writing and the answer is all too clear. I was about ten years old. I had no inkling back then that this was a path I would continue on my entire life. All I knew was I felt this strong urge to write, to explore new ideas with words, to communicate in a way that I otherwise would not have been able to.
My very first attempt at writing prose came in the form of a play that I titled “The Talking Vegetable Garden.” I know what you’re thinking, catchy title, right? I have no earthly idea why I chose to bring a garden to life, to create dialogue for carrots, beans and other such eatable greenery. Perhaps I thought the world was in need of a disagreeable cabbage head, a smooth talking squash or a silly acting parsnip. Who is to say what thoughts were pulsing though this ten year old mind when I decided the world was in need of an imaginary garden where a potato ends up being the bad guy. Then again, why not!
So gathering up my script I recruited some of my classmates to take part. Giving up several of our noon hours seemed a reasonable price to pay for the accolades awaiting us somewhere down the road. Our debut performance was for our homeroom class and, might I add, Mrs. Pettigrew was so impressed with our performance that she allowed us to go to other classrooms that day and wow them with our innate acting abilities. We even got out of doing our school work. We were stars! What more proof did we need?
I can only remember one little boy who played the villain, a small potato with a big attitude. His mom had created him a costume that rivaled all the others. It was a simple costume made from a burlap potato sack and our elementary teachers thought he was adorable, even though he ended up chasing all the other vegetables away with a hatchet. (What a great storyline!!) For myself, I chose the part of narrator, a small part at the very beginning of the play which basically let the audience know just what the play was all about. I wasn’t interested in having a starring role I was more than content to sit in the sidelines for the remainder of the play as my words were spoken with such fervor by my classmates who understood better than anyone the perils that were awaiting some unsuspecting legume.
I’m sure when we marched into the grade six classroom where my sister sat in the front row she no doubt wanted to make a quick exit. (She was kind of like that growing up, “the shy one” as everyone called her.) For the life of me I can’t recall what her comments were, if any, about my cleverly written masterpiece although I’m sure she was well past the age where she dared to dream about veggies communicating in such an articulate fashion and no doubt thought it childish and silly. I can guarantee that she hasn’t given this nearly as much thought over the years as I and I’m even willing to bet she doesn’t even recall our debut performance whatsoever. Go figure!
So there you have—a little known story of where it all started. I only wish I could tell you I saved the script because other than what small bits of memories I have shared with you here there isn’t any other proof out there that this story even happened.